Tag: family

Just Tie the Knot, Already!

Well, I’m nothing if not adept at biting off more than I can chew so it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise to hear that I’ve done it again.  This time I had help though.  In the form of a Viking.

We were contentedly watching a movie last week when he suddenly said….

“How much longer do we need to be together before we get married?”

I laughed nervously; the subject of marriage always makes me a bit flinch-y.

Except, last weekend we celebrated our 10th year together.  10 YEARS!  Some people might consider that a fairly lengthy engagement but, to be honest, I’m quite happy with the status quo.  I don’t need a legal document to prove my love and a Common-Law status is legally almost as good as marriage anyway.   You don’t spend 2 decades trying to make a marriage work, fail and then jump right back into the frying pan without at least a little apprehension.

The Viking:  I’m not joking.  How much longer do you need?

Me:  Umm…..well I didn’t really have a specific date in mind – like 2021 or anything.

The Viking:  It’s been 10 years already!

Me:  I know.  I just thought we had decided not to jump in this year.

The Viking:  I know you’ve been married before and weren’t willing to make that decision too soon but it’s about time, isn’t it?

Me:  I didn’t realize you were in a hurry.

The Viking:  Well, I’ve never been married and I would like to get married before I die.  To you!  Erik and Annette* will be here and this is the only time we can get married when I could have a family member stand up for me.

Well, geez!  If he’s going to put it that way…..

And he’s right – as usual.  I thought we would get married in Denmark in a few years when we had a little more money, but it would be cheaper to do it here rather than flying my kids all the way to Denmark.

And maybe I should start dealing with my aversion to marriage and anything that even sounds like marriage.  The Viking and I have been living and working together for years and years quite happily, so you wouldn’t think that a piece of paper would make any difference.  It’s a piece of paper not a liver transplant!  Right?

But deep in the back of my head is a voice saying, “Sometimes that piece of legal paper makes a world of difference.” Some people take it as permission to be controlling and over-bearing and jealous; I’ve seen movies!  And what if there’s a skeleton in a closet that I haven’t located yet?  What if he’s trying on my clothes when I go to the grocery store (not that there’s anything wrong with that if I know about it before I marry it!)?  What if he has an entire family concealed in a neighbouring town (even I can see that this is not very likely, but still….)?  What if he’s in the Witness Protection Program and mob thugs are going to show up here one day?  What if…..

FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD……shut up already!  If The Viking were truly like that and managed to fool me for 10 years(!) he deserves a medal of achievement. Besides, he doesn’t have the patience for it.  He probably won’t change at all.  And don’t you remember you called him an arse-ling just last week and he didn’t lose his shit at all!  In fact, he actually smiled!  So, maybe marrying him will turn out to be the best thing ever.

Or not.  Gawd!  My right eye is twitching.  Is my eye trying to tell me something?  Perhaps it knows something that my brain hasn’t picked up yet.  It would be just like me to have a ‘twitchy eye’ instead of a ‘gut feeling’.  On the other hand, you have to see something before your brain can do anything about it, so maybe my twitchy eye is ahead of the curve.

And now that I’m thinking about it, why in the hell would he want to marry me in the first place?  I’m a mess!  A 53 YEAR OLD Mess!  It’s exhausting just thinking about all of my faults and weirdiness.

You know, he would really be better off with someone less……..

The Viking:  HELLOOO?! 

Me:  What?

The Viking:  I’ve been watching your face.  Are you getting close to using words yet?

Me:  Oh!  Of course I want to marry you!  What woman wouldn’t?  Are you sure you want to go down this road?  You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your life because once I’m committed that’s it!   

The Viking:  I know.  I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if I wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life with you.

Me:  What if I don’t meet expectations?

The Viking:  You already don’t meet expectations.  Nothing new there.  I kind of like that about you.

Me:  Really?    

The Viking:  Why do you think I want to marry you?  

Me:  You have a concussion?  Brain Cancer?  You hear dead people?  A VooDoo Doctor is making you do it?  Blackmail?  An evil curse?  Selective Alzheimers?  

The Viking:  Oh, for fucksakes!  Are you going to marry me or what?!

Me:  Okay, fine!  On one condition.

The Viking:  Should I even ask?

Me:  When I’m in a wheel chair, you will make it the fastest, most powerful wheel chair ever!

The Viking:  You might not end up in a wheel chair.

Me:   70% chance.

The Viking:  If you do, I will.

Me:  And you’ll love me forever?

The Viking:  I already do.  More than you can even imagine.

And then all hell broke loose!  I had 10 days to pull this off.  I need an Official to do the ceremony, our rings, dishes, flowers, a wedding outfit, a tablecloth, cloth napkins and rings, wine glasses, drink glasses, serving platters, photographer, my Judgement of Divorce (who knows where the hell I stashed that damned thing?!), a marriage license, some place to have the ceremony and a pedicure/manicure.  Then there are the Wedding Vows to write.

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We aren’t equipped to have a wedding, even an incredibly small one.  We only had 7 dinner plates and one of them had an ugly chip in it.  No matching wine glasses.  If I’m harnessing myself to The Viking for the rest of my life there had better be some matching wine glasses!!

Today, I have exactly 5 days left to find a photographer, get the marriage license and find a nice spot in Bowness Park.  Thanks to my Mim, we’ve accomplished a damned miracle getting the other stuff.

Even better, I am actually looking forward to My Teeny Weeny Viking Wedding.

I’m still stressed but there is a small chance that I might be ready for Saturday morning when we pick up Erik and Annette at the airport.

Sweet Bejesus!!  I forgot about a cake!  May this be the only thing I’ve forgotten.  Sigh.  Deep breaths.  It will be fine.  It’s a wedding, not a Heart Transplant.

*The Viking’s brother and his lovely wife, Annette.

If you care……share.  

I Can’t Just Wing It!

April 2017

The Viking’s brother and his lovely partner Annette are coming for a visit from Denmark in July.  For three weeks.  And I’m not concerned at all.  Because I’m an adult and have two and a half months to prepare.  As a matter of fact, when I told The Viking that I was a little stressed, he said “You have two and a half months to prepare, for fucksakes!”

I shouldn’t be worried at all.  There should be absolutely zero stress involved.  I’ve been the Hostess with the Mostess before; it’s not like I’m a rookie.  I’ve had the Boss and his wife over for dinner.  It was nothing! Friends? Easy-peasy!  The kids?  No problem!  You know where the linens are, help yourself.  If the chicken was a little over-cooked, who cares, right?

This time it’s different.  This time it’s The Viking’s Brother, Erik!  And Annette!  They had the most amazing bed linens and meals that were perfect and hot buns and cheese and cold cuts in the morning and a beautiful home and everything was perfect!  Most importantly, no one was losing their fucking minds trying to be perfect.

I can’t just wing this!  I can’t procrastinate until 3 days before they arrive and then panic.

Today

So guess what I did?

That’s right.  I procrastinated my way to 16 days before their arrival.  And now I’m LIKE THIS!

I need to be fresh and relaxed so they will feel fresh and relaxed.  I can’t meet them at the airport in a full-blown hot flash, reeking of Windex and Bleach.

I should hire people.  Professional people.  Waiters and Chefs and Housekeepers and couriers and a Butler.  I wonder if Ramsay is busy?  No, scratch that!  I can’t have him telling people to fuck off and calling them donkey’s asses while I’m trying to be perfect.  Jamie Oliver then.  Yikes! What if he serves Squid Ink Pasta!  I’ve written an entire blog about my feelings involving Squid Ink Pasta!  If only Julia Child were alive and available.

A mature, experienced woman would start by creating lists to be completed in chronological order as the date of arrival approaches.  But I didn’t do that.  Sure, I scoured the internet until I found amazing linens but that is the extent of my preparations.  I still have so much to do!

  • Paint the family room
  • Hang family room pictures
  • Shampoo carpets
  • Re-Side the house
  • Re-Sod the front yard
  • Build professional flower beds and plant flowers
  • Re-plant flowers because the first ones died
  • Get a Pedi-cure and my nails done
  • Cut The Viking’s hair
  • Get MY hair done
  • Buy a designer water pitcher with matching glasses for the guest room
  • Transform the Office Cubby Thingy in the spare room into a Martha Fucking Stewart creation
  • Re-hang curtain rods in spare room because I fucked up the ones in there already
  • Get a complete make over
  • Make more Poo-Pourri – we only have one bathroom after all
  • Hang The Viking’s Battle Axe and Shield on a wall so he’s not tempted to use it on me
  • Lose 30 pounds
  • Hire a Look Alike so I can hide in a closet and have panic attacks
  • Get the car detailed
  • Buy a hand gun and shoot myself in the head
  • DON’T BUY A HAND GUN!

Crazy GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

There is a bat-shit crazy squirrel in my head playing every disastrous scenario possible.  What if they have allergies to my laundry detergent? What if I can’t think of anything to say?  What if I say the wrong thing? What if they notice my stress and hate being here?  What if they decide to go home early because I’m a mess?

Maybe I should get some Weed.  If I get stoned will I be like this…..

Apple GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

or like this?

Getting On GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

Probably this, because it’s me we’re talking about.  And this is also the reason we don’t have a big fountain in the house – I don’t need to be wasted to fall into it.

Maybe I’ll just try essential oils first.  Apparently lavender, rose, vetiver (whatever the fuck that is), ylang ylang, bergamot, chamomile and frankincense (I thought that was only for Jesus) are good for alleviating anxiety.

I can always go for the devil’s weed later if necessary.

 

 

Mim’s Mine

I’ve been teetering on the edge of depression for the past couple of weeks.  I haven’t been feeling well and bills are piling up and my teeth are bothering me and I’m really tired and have every reason in the world to just go to bed and not get out for a week.  Of course I can’t get away with that which adds resentment to depression but that’s life.  Right?

But just when I was certain I was going down, Mim sends me this on Facebook. (The rest of this post is gibberish unless you watch the quick video).

Mim:   I think I’ve asked you almost all of these this year alone.

Me:    That just means you have an amazing Mom. And it also means that I have ALL the answers. You can pray to me if you want.

Mim:  Ooh If I rub a statue of you will it give me good luck? Or will a talisman of you keep evil away? What kind of chant do I have to utter while I pray? Oh! If I work my way up through the ranks can I wear a fancy costume like the pope!?!?

Me:  You just asked me 4 more questions. Yes – if you make a statue of me and rub the butt it will give you good luck AND keep evil away. I currently don’t have an official chant but now that you’ve brought it up I’ll get R&D to come up with something. If you can work your way into the higher echelons I promise to give you a very fancy costume. Do you like sequins? And what’s your feelings on mini disco balls?

From the video we moved over to a private message.  And so I don’t lose you, you should know that my cute little Mim is an Insulation Apprentice and is currently working on a Gas Plant site where every safety precaution is enforced.  Also, she’s the only female on a good sized crew.

So, the Viking comes in the house for a coffee and finds me weeping on my keyboard.  “What the fuck?!  What’s wrong?”

I suck air into my lungs.  “Mim!!  Oh my gawd!!”

I try to contain myself and read her message out loud.

“You wanna hear something funny? We have to wear personal gas monitors and I farted and it set off my monitor. Now everyone knows I farted!”

The Personal Gas Monitor vibrates, flashes and rings all at the same time!!

“Startled me at first and then I started laughing.”

The Viking laughed so hard he scared the cats!  So we were both weeping.

I sent Mim this….

Fart GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

“Hahahaha it wasn’t even a big fart! It was just a fluff. Just a “pff” but there’s a hole in the crotch of my coveralls and it snuck out!”

I asked what all the guys did.

“I guess they’re pretty used to setting off their own monitors so all I got was ‘ooh, somebody farted’ in a whimsical sing song voice.”

“I thought I was being all inconspicuous too cuz I knew it was going to be just a little bastard fart (a little stinker with no pop).  Didn’t think my stupid monitor would give me away!”

“I think the only reason I haven’t set it off before is because my other pair of coveralls don’t have a hole in the crotch.  Brad told me it makes him proud to have such a woman.  I think he was being sarcastic though.”

So I have a question that I need to ask when I have a minute.  Two questions now that I think about it.

  1. What are her coveralls made of that they can contain a fart?  Do farts accumulate in the legs and when you take them off at night a big green cloud of stink floats out?  Wait.  That kind of explains men’s locker rooms. Is all men’s apparel made of the same stuff?
  2. How do they know that an alarm on a monitor is a fart and not H2S?  I suppose maybe a billowy feeling in their under-carriage is a good indicator but what happens if you fart at the same time as H2S arrives?

Shit!  Now I’m worried.  I need to know stats – what are the odds?  See?! This is why we need science!

I was feeling better because of the laughs but now…….well……I’m right back to square one!  I read an article today that said intelligent people are less likely to be happy than stupid people because of blah, blah, logical conclusions, blah, blah, blah analytical thought processes blah, blah serious contemplations of fact and if that article is anything to go by I’m a damned genius!

Even so, I do feel better.  The Viking has been cursing the Gawds lately – at the top of his extremely effective lungs – about dirt and time and junk and people and air …….

Shrek GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

……but I’m still okay.  I guess you lose again Life Obstacles!  Also, scrolling through Giphy looking for farts is enough to make anyone feel better.

But mostly, it was Mim.  And she’s mine.

Like a Mini-Me

I was the family joke when I was growing up.  They called me Dum-Dum. I was also “the ugliest baby” my father had ever seen.  I eventually came to terms that this is the hand that I was dealt and carried on.  There are others out there that have much shittier hands than me so I just made the best of it.

Oh sure, I was different.  I thought differently, I saw things differently, I did things differently.  Everyone in the household wore the “What the Fuck?!” face most of the 18 years I lived there.  And when I moved in with my husband, he wore it for the next 20+ years we were together.  And yes. The Viking wears it too.

Wtf GIF - Find & Share on GIPHY

But during my genealogy project, I came across pictures of myself as a kid. I wasn’t ugly!  What the hell?!  Stupid and ugly….those were the words.  But look at me!

I’m fucking adorable!

And then I started looking more closely at the rest of the photos and realized that Mrs. Completely was hiding there the whole time!  Like a Mini-Me!  If only I had known!

Those facial expressions aren’t those of a stupid person.  There are definitely things going on in that head.

 

 

I saw, I analyzed and I got grossed out.  There is no disputing the wheels were turning and I had come to a logical conclusion.

 

 

 

I tried to explain myself all the time!  Obviously not well enough though. Those aren’t the eyes of a stupid kid – they are the windows into a wacky soul.  An adorable wacky soul!

 

 

 

 

It’s not like I didn’t try to be normal. What other conclusion could anyone make about this pic except I was trying very, very hard to be sweet like a normal person?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

That’s not a good look on anyone but I’m putting in the effort.

 

 

Most people would have left the room, but I stuck it out.  That’s loyalty!

 

 

 

 

And then Dad set me up to look really stupid with my Grade 2 friends when he explained what an Orgy was.  Not cool, Dad!

 

 

 

 

I may have fallen for the Orgasm thing but despite what Dad says now, I didn’t fall for a Carpool being a swimming pool with sloped ends that you drive your car through.

I stopped asking him questions after that and just figured it out on my own.

 

 

Sure, I had my moments.  I wasn’t always good – I probably wasn’t good 70% of the time – but aside from my older sister, who is good all the time?  Certainly not the person who gave me that damned black left eye!  Oddly enough, that’s not the only black eye I sported in childhood pictures.

So, I’m reviewing everything I always believed about myself. Who knew that at this late date it would be necessary?  And what does that say when I have to go all the way back to the beginning in order to grow now?

 

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A Slightly Kinder Version of Hell

I opened my email today and then quickly closed it again.  There were 238 new messages.  238!!  I’m in no shape to deal with that!  I’m barely able to brush my teeth.

It all started last week.  Wait, more accurately, it started 3 years ago but last week was an event of sorts.  It’s genealogy – convoluted, confusing genealogy.  My Great Grandmother started this whole thing when she watched Roots: The Miniseries, way back in the 1970’s.  She started digging and researching and put together an impressive lump of material without the aid of the internet.

My parents took up the cause and collected an even more impressive chunk of information, including photos.  They wandered all over the USA, wrote letters and badgered relatives until they now have branches on the family tree that go back to the 1600’s.  The pile is spectacularly imposing.

All of this information and keepsakes and heirlooms and photos……all of it…..will go to my older sister.  But where does that leave my kids?  What if they want to know the stories about their great, great, great, great, great Grandfather/Grandmother?  It would break my heart to lose all the information that’s been lovingly compiled over 50 years.

I decided that wasn’t going to happen.  About three years ago I started writing a short book about my parents and their parents.  I’ve spent the last 6 months scanning over 800 photos.  Some photos deserved better than my old Brother scanner that tops out at 1200dpi, so I bought another scanner that does 6400dpi.  I taught myself Photoshop and spent hundreds of hours touching up photos.

This brings me why I’m in no shape to deal with 238 245 (more have come in since I started this post) damned emails.

I drove 4 hours to my parents and spent Friday afternoon, all day Saturday and part of Sunday working on notes for their book and going though keepsakes in the family trunk and then drove the 4 hours back home.  I want this project finished so I can move on with my own projects, namely a book on how The Viking and I stormed Europe, offended Catholics, pissed off the Autobahn, shocked small villages and educated Florencians on how to curse.

But for now my brain is full.

It’s so full there isn’t room for anything else.  And I’m tired to the bone.  It’s probably because my brain is so busy trying to compartmentalize all that information that it has nothing left to actually operate my body.  That happens to computers all the time!  It’s so busy updating the Anti-Virus that it can’t play a single game of Solitaire.  That’s totally legit.

Except, apparently, it’s not legit when it’s anything other than a computers.  Because I came home and my car vomited all the binders, photos, keepsakes, tintypes and diaries all over the kitchen.  On Monday I looked at the mess and…..NOPE!  It just wasn’t in me to deal with it.  Yesterday was the same way.  Until The Viking decided that all this shit was messing up the clean kitchen he had personally arranged for me.

 

 

 

So, with aching back and foggy mind, I have picked up the harness of Mundania.  I’ve got no great ideas for a blog post – or supper for that matter.  I’ll come up with something I guess.  It’s supposed to thundershower this afternoon, fucking up any thoughts on barbequing.  I might be able to but as soon as I rely on it the heavens will open up and drown me, the barbeque and whatever the hell the main dish is.  Maybe something in the slow cooker?  It doesn’t give off much heat so shouldn’t turn the house into a slightly kinder version of Hell.

In the meantime, I will tackle the monster that is my Inbox.

Is it dangerous?

It’s time for Friday Fictioneers.  Tell a story based on the picture below in 100 words or less.

 

“Just a peek for now, we can’t risk being seen.  Poor Jacques learned that the hard way.”

Pascal’s eyes grew round.  “Is it dangerous?”

“Not if you know what you’re doing.”  Louis boasted.  “Relax!  I’m the best!”

“Um……okay.”  Hesitantly, not totally convinced.

Louis grinned mischievously.  “You’re not in the country anymore, cousin.  This is the city – you can find anything you want!”

“Is there cheese?  I love cheese.”

“Only about 10 different kinds!”

“And toast?  Toast is wonderful.”  Pascal’s tummy rumbled.

“Let’s grab a nap now so we can eat all night!” Louis said, his whiskers dancing in anticipation. 

-100 words

Special thanks to Roger Bultot for the cool photo and to Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

For more short stories, click the button below.

Confessions of an Ex-Wife

The Viking and I spent most of Saturday silently arguing.  Well, not arguing the way most people would argue, but more like silent, body language arguing.  It’s our specialty.

Okay, fine!  It’s my specialty.  That’s how I argue.  I walk away from the actual argument (you might be tempted to think you’ve won but you would be mistaken) and then answer every subsequent question with one syllable responses that are so fucking polite it’s impossible not to notice I’m pissed off.

I sometimes think I should work on that but to be honest it’s just too big of a job.  I’d have to dig and pick at childhood stuff and then become more assertive and less Passive-Aggressive which means I would have to actively participate in arguments that would involve cursing and shouting and maybe even door slamming and nothing would be settled because everyone was so busy shouting they couldn’t hear what the other one was saying.  I’ve never done this so I’m just guessing at how it would all work.  

It was while I was silently, Passive-Aggressively arguing with The Viking on Saturday, that I started thinking about the things I did to my Ex-Husband, Stanley, while I was Passively-Aggressively arguing with him.  I have to admit I did quite a lot of things but he was just so easy to fuck with and I was evil enough to use it against him.

Food was the biggest issue with Stanley.  Don’t touch his food, don’t smell his food, don’t even look at his food.  If one of your digits/limbs got too close you could expect, at minimum, a good stabbing with his fork.  When children came along, we would all huddle down at one end of the table while he hunched over his plate at the other end, shovelling food into his mouth, never breaking eye contact with us.  He said it was because he spent too much time in Boarding Schools where he had to fight for every bite of food.  I thought it was because he was raised by wolves.  Whatever the cause, as the Cook/Scullery Maid, I had plenty of access to his food and when the Passive/Aggressive got a hold of me……well….I would fuck with his food.

He worked 12 hour shifts so I would pack 4 sandwiches, a Tupperware container of microwaveable dinner leftovers, an apple or two and half a dozen cookies.  Sometimes, I would take a big bite out of the lower right-hand corner of each sandwich, stack them up, perfectly aligned and wrap them.  I’d put the bite corner facing down in the lunch box so he wouldn’t suspect a thing until he wanted a sandwich at work.

He called from work.  “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the lunch box.  “I licked one of the cookies.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I folded the piece of ham in half and chewed out the center, leaving just a ham ring before I put it in the sandwich.  All four sandwiches.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I made him 3 Bologna and Strawberry Jam sandwiches because I ran out of mustard after the first one.  Before you go ‘Ewwww…” try it.  It’s actually good.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I put a note in the bottom of his lunch box.  “One of these things is past its expiration date.  Guess which one.”

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He once woke me up at 4 o’clock in the morning because he was going on a rafting trip with some friends and had promised to bring sandwiches.  He forgot to mention it the night before.  So I left the wrapping on the cheese slices in every one of the 12 sandwiches.*

When he got home…..“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He called from work one time to ask me to mow the lawn so he could go to the bar with some of his work buddies.  The best advice my Mother ever gave me was to never do any chore for your husband because it will be yours for the rest of your life.  So I mowed the lawn in wild curves and circles with large patches of grass un-mowed.  From above it should have looked like a penis and balls.

When he stopped at home to change clothes….“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”  I told him I thought it looked great.  He mowed it again before he went to the bar.

I folded all his socks inside out.  I stuck my finger in his mashed potatoes.  I short sheeted the bed when he was working night shifts.   “WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

He sat on the toilet so long that his legs fell asleep.  He waddled down the hallway, heading for the family room.  I watched him for a moment and then put my index finger on his shoulder and pushed him, ever so gently, so he had to take a step.  He yelled “QUIT IT!”  I did it again.  He yelled again.  I did it again.  You have to make the best of the time you have before the blood rushes back into his legs.

“WHAT THE FUCK, LORI!!”

I’m not proud of any of it.  Wait.  Who am I kidding?  I’m totally proud!  And it’s difficult to stop doing a behavior that gives me so much joy.  And before you have too much sympathy for Stanley you should know that he once came home in the middle of the night and banged on the front door.  When I got the door opened he was wearing a full face Gorilla mask and jumped at me.  There was a little bit of pee.

He also sat on top of our refrigerator for 45 minutes just so he could scare me.  I wonder if karma ever caught up to him?

I don’t have the time or energy for those kinds of things anymore.  At worse I make food that I know The Viking doesn’t like.  He also works at home so there would be no “cooling off period” before he could confront my deeds.  And there is the fact that I already do enough stuff to make him holler without engineering more.

As for trying to address my Passive-Aggressive tendencies:  that’s probably not something I’m going to get around to fixing.  Besides, what would I do with all my VooDoo dolls?

 

*I’ve noticed that leaving the plastic on the cheese slice has become a ‘thing’ now.  But I did it first – 30 years ago.  However, I never thought to write “Sorry.  Not Sorry.” on it with a Sharpie.

What Do You Mean It’s Not Your Birthday?

Hey!  How are you?  It’s been a couple of weeks since we last had coffee.  I couldn’t get my shit together last week which is nothing new to those who know me.  I start one thing, get interrupted with something more important, get side tracked and then forget where I was with the first thing.  My mind isn’t an orderly, organized mind.  It’s a mass of jumping beans dancing to a Mariachi Band.

On Friday, I planned a Happy Birthday phone call to my Father.  He’s a busy man, always gadding about, bullshitting with friends:  coffee at A&W, crib at the Senior’s Center, lunch with friends, bowling, curling and other sundry events.  My call was timed for 1:30pm which should be after lunch but before naptime.  I missed that deadline (surprise!) because….well….shit happens around here; it was almost 2:00 when I called, but at least I hadn’t forgotten altogether.

Dad:  Hello?

Me:  Hey Dad!  Happy Birthday!

Dad:  What?

Me (louder):  HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!

Dad:  Well, thanks, Lor.  Even if it is 4 days early.

Me:  What?

Dad (louder):  IT’S NOT MY BIRTHDAY!

It’s sad when a parent starts going downhill.  They’ve always been the strong, wise person you can depend on no matter what happens.  I guess age has finally caught up with the old guy.

Me:  Of course it’s your Birthday, Dad.

Dad:  It is not!

Me:  Dad!  It’s the 5th of May!  Your birthday!

Wait.  5th of May?  That’s not right.  Who’s birthday is on a 5th?

Gawd Dammit!!!  My older sister is born on March 5th!  Dad is on May 9th!  Fuuuuuuuuuck!!

I started to laugh.  What else can I do, right?

Dad:  The bastards moved my Birthday, hey?  Maybe I should call you on March 29th next year.

Me:  Hahahaha!  You can if you like.

He shouldn’t have been surprised.  I find calendars challenging and it’s not a new thing.  Birthdays, holidays, special days, week days, weekends……it clutters up my chaos.  And there’s no rhythm to most of them.  Easter can fall anywhere from the end of March to the middle of April.  How am I supposed to work with that?

And Birthdays!  Gawd!  Everyone has to have one!  Can’t we just schedule the 15th of every month to celebrate Birthdays?  Bakeries wouldn’t have to be baking damned cakes every day…..they could just make a whole shitload on the 14th.  The staff at Swiss Chalet could just hire a few local singers to stand in a corner annoying everyone all at the same time.  No need to embarrass the staff and force them to hold Sparklers which may or may not light their hair on fire.  They could have a 6:00pm song and an 8:00pm song.  Done!

Mother’s Day & Father’s Day – why can’t these days be celebrated on the same day?  All the women can go to a Brunch Buffet and all the Fathers can gather at a Sports Bar for beer and chicken wings.  Or vice versa – this isn’t a stereotype exercise.  Mothers in the morning, Fathers in the afternoon.  Done!

We also have Remembrance Day, Labour Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Canada Day (4th of July for my American friends), Valentine’s Day, Groundhog Day, Family Day, Naked Gardening Day and Thanksgiving and that’s just the main days I have to keep track of.  Who planned this mess?  Can’t we just designate the 1st weekend in every month a Special Whatever Day and give everyone the Friday and the Monday off work?

And let’s make a law about commercialization.  I walk into the grocery store on the 16th of February to find an explosion of Easter shit.  I think “HOLY SHIT!!  Is it Easter already?  Cripes!  I don’t have a plan!  I don’t have a turkey or ham!”  My blood pressure skyrockets and I feel faint.

Last year they were hanging Hallowe’en costumes beside Santa suits.  That’s just wrong on so many levels it’s hard to pick just one beef.  They’re killing me with conflicting messages.

As for Dad’s Birthday…..well….he might be irritated but he’ll get over it.  If it makes him feel better to do unto me what I have done unto him, it’s all good.  I totally deserve it for being such a useless User of Calendars.  And if he forgets to call on my birthday I probably won’t even notice because I’ll be in a panic about Easter.

So how has your last couple of weeks been?  Anything new and exciting?  Spill!

 

As always, a special thanks to Part-Time Monster for Weekend Coffee Share and Nerd in the Brain for hosting.  You rock.

Sarcasm, Belligerence or Condescension

Hi!  It’s so nice to see you, especially since you came to the Back Door – I’ll explain that in a minute.  Here’s a mug, coffee is in the thermos and you already know where to find the treats.  It’s not like it’s the first time you’re here.  You are family now.  You’re lucky I don’t assign a chore.

Yes, that was a joke.  I would never force you to work for your coffee because that would be wrong and I hate having chores when I visit one of you.

So, I’ve had to answer my front door 3 times this week.  3 times!  And I always approach the Front Door Summons with some trepidation because there are a finite number of things that happen at my Front Door and not all of them are pleasant.  And rarely is it a friend.

Everyone I know comes to the Back Door.  You do.  You knock once, come on in and yell, in a very high voice, “HELLOOOOO”.  I had a weirdo friend once that wanted everyone to use the Front Door all the time.  I had to stop visiting her because who knows what other kinds of horrible things she’s got going on?  What was she hiding in her back entry?  Did she have small children chained to the wall or something?  Who knows?  No one was allowed to go back there!

And a Summons from the Front Door isn’t like a phone call where any sort of fuckery can happen, there’s usually only a few reasons someone might be on the other side of that door.

Good Reasons Someone Would Be At My Front Door:
  • To give me 2 Night Vision Goggles so The Viking and I can play Hide ‘n Seek in the dark.

That pretty much ends my list of good things that happen at the Front Door.

Bad Reasons Someone Would Be At My Front Door:
  • It could be the police wanting to know if I’m a Grow-Op (no), or if I own a Rav 4 with front end damage (maybe), or if I own any firearms (no), or where I was night before last between the hours of 11:00pm and 3:00am (probably asleep in bed but I couldn’t prove it).
  • It could be armed assailants that want to steal our TV. It is a really nice TV.
  • It could be someone complaining that we forgot to close the curtains for Naked Hockey Night.  That doesn’t happen very often though.

Most probably though, whoever is on the other side of my Front Door wants to sell me something or teach me something – neither of which I’m interested in.  Unless they want to teach me how to do handbrake turns and drifting because I really, really wish I knew how!  The Viking won’t teach me for some bewildering reason.

Of the three times(!) I had to trek to the Front Door this week, two times were because the Religiously Active are apparently concerned about The State Of My Soul and which direction I will be heading immediately after my death.  The first visit was from two little old ladies that were so sweet I couldn’t be rude.  I took their pamphlet and smiled and wished them a wonderful day.  I put the pamphlet directly into recycling without reading what would be involved in saving my soul.

The second visit from the Religiously Active was a sweet old man with very short arms.  I don’t know why his arms are so short because while I was running through a mental list of all the possible reasons his arms could be so short he became less sweet and more Inquisition-y.  I told him I already had the pamphlet he was showing me and he didn’t believe me!

“Oh reaaally.” He said slowly.  “Have you ever seen these two ladies before?  Are they from the neighbourhood?”  I think he’s been knocking on doors for far too long; there was definitely some bitterness there.

I hesitated.  It was like looking at a Bunnie that just bit me; it was so cute but it had big teeth!  And how should I reply?  With Sarcasm?  Condescension?  Belligerence?

I decided on the Carefully Neutral But With A Hint Of Sarcasm tone.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen these ladies before in my entire life.  Well, maybe I did before they got old – wrinkles sometimes change a person’s face – but I definitely haven’t seen them in the last decade for sure.  You aren’t going to make me go through my recycling bin for the pamphlet, are you?  Because I would really hate that.”

It was his turn to have a moment of indecision but eventually he said.  “Well, thank you for your time.  Will we be seeing you at our Memorial Celebration?”

“Probably not.  Have a lovely day.” I smiled kindly.

The third visit to my front door was Canada Post delivering a catalogue.  I really hate this kind of Summons because the Postal Person is already two houses down the block before I open the door so I’m forced to holler “THANK YOU!” and she just waves back at me.  That is an extremely unsatisfying interaction with another human being.  I like a “You’re Welcome” when I say “Thank You”.  It’s a start and an end.  Satisfying.  A backhand wave from half a block away isn’t the same thing at all and I don’t particularly like having to bellow my appreciation.  To add insult to injury the catalogue wasn’t even for me – which might have made up for the walk all the way to the Front Door.  But no, it was for The Viking.

Okay.  End of Pet Peeve Rant.

You have a weird look on your face.  Do you think I’m nuts?  Is it because you just haven’t thought about it or do you not mind people coming to your Front Door willy-nilly like there’s no order to the chaos in the universe?  Without order and rules we could be facing an onslaught of people knocking on Front Doors and running away like in the 1970s, and no one wants that, my friends.

So!  How was your week?

Thanks to Part-Time Monster for inventing and growing Weekend Coffee Share and Nerd in the Brain for hosting the event.  You guys are awesome.

A Family History, A Tax Return And A Book

I’m over-extended. I bit off more than I could chew. I’ve procrastinated myself into a maelstrom of missed deadlines. The pressure is on. I don’t have any time. Every distraction puts me further behind.

It’s my own fault, of course – which makes it worse. I can’t even point a finger at someone and holler “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!” I can’t even lose my temper because The Viking might list all the time I have wasted in the past 6 months when I could have been working on the projects that I’m now stressing over. I hate it when I think I know what he’s going to say.

Priority One right now is Year End for our business. It’s kind of time sensitive – I can’t put it off for another week because I have invoices for 2017 that have to wait until I’m done 2016. It’s not like it’s difficult, it’s just been neglected into a sweaty, angry mess that I have to untangle and decode before I can end it.

In my defense, I found something I wanted to do more than the things I am supposed to be doing. I can’t be alone in that. Who wouldn’t want to write a blog post instead of entering depreciation of company-owned machines? I took a whole diploma program for business accounting so I could do our books only to discover that I hate accounting. This sort of thing happens to me more than you might imagine. Be that as it may, it’s a chore that has to be done and I’m the only one capable of doing it.

I’ve promised to stay on top of it in the future so I don’t have to spend weeks at the end of the year. Sigh.

Priority Two is the huge project that I took on without knowing exactly how much work it would actually be. I wanted to give my children a story and pictures about where and who they come from. Every kid should know that.

So, I’ve been scanning old pictures; I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds of hours doing it. The book portion of the project is about half finished but I’m not really happy with it so will start from scratch again. It’s all worth it for my kids and grandkids though. Right? And as soon as I’ve finished Year End, this becomes my Number One Priority.

Priority Three is a labour of love. The Viking and I subjected ourselves on Europe for 7 weeks in 2014, from Denmark to Italy to Croatia and back to Denmark. I kept a journal of our adventures and I will expand it and, hopefully, have it published. Trust me that no one has ever taken a European Vacation like The Viking and I did. Seriously.

And now that I’ve written all my priorities down, I can see a hint of New Year’s Resolutions which I had decided not to do because I never take them seriously enough. These might resemble Resolutions but they definitely are not Resolutions. These are……um……hmmm…..well I don’t know what to call these other than Priorities so that’s what they are.

I have a plan. It’s a good plan, a meaty plan that, once accomplished, should make me feel like a Goddess. A Goddess with a Family History and a Tax Return and a Book! If only the Gawds will play along…..

And then I can celebrate!